He did this because he wanted to watch her start to cave.
She was all about Travis. All about family. So he knew she would cave.
So he was shocked as shit that she didn’t.
He walked right to the elevators but as he did, he saw it.
And when he saw it, he didn’t stare. He looked away immediately.
But it was burned on his brain anyway.
He knew where Angie’s office was in that suite.
Fuck, he should have taken the long way.
But he didn’t.
So he saw it.
Carissa pressing her face into Carson Steele’s chest, the man’s head bent, lips to her hair, her shoulders shaking with her tears. He was holding Carissa close with one arm, hand buried in her ringlets, Aaron’s fucking son held tight in his other arm.
That vision was obliterated by another one he also did not like—seeing that last look of hurt and hate thrown his way through her tears—as Aaron got in the elevator.
The doors closed on him, his father, and his friend and colleague, Steven.
“Son, we’ll go back to the office and—” his dad began.
He turned his head and caught his father’s eyes. “Please, shut up.”
His chin jerked into his neck. “I beg your pardon?”
He heard her words.
I can’t stand the sight of you.
His father had fucked up. Their investigator warned them strongly not to bring in Chaos. If they did, the investigator told them that Kane Allen would activate Nightingale or Delgado, “And unless you can open your closet doors wide and only celestial light shines out with no bones dangling, they’ll eviscerate the both of you.”
His words.
Precisely.
Neither his father nor Aaron could open those doors.
So Chaos was off-limits.
But his father was so fucking arrogant, his head so far up his fucking ass, he thought he could get away with anything.
The strategy was to shake Carissa up with their news about Peter Waite and to share that her boyfriend was capable of beating a man bloody. Shake her up and make her rethink. Shake her up and drive her back to Aaron.
Aaron had not foreseen Angie being that in the know about her Chaos clients. She’d made Steele sound like a crusader for justice, and Carissa hadn’t even blinked.
She knew it all, or if she didn’t know it all, she knew enough not to give a shit.
Then she’d walked out and right into Steele’s arms.
Right into his arms.
“I said, shut up.”
His father’s face twisted.
“Don’t let that little bitch get into your head,” he hissed. “She’s been fucking with it since she was fucking fourteen.”
Carissa was a little bitch now. For over a decade, she’d been everything from an angel to a demon depending on his father’s mood.
His mother had always loved her.
His mother detested Tory.
His father didn’t mind staring at Tory’s tits any time she was around, but he thought she was a low-class homewrecker, and he’d shared that straight to Aaron’s face.
Repeatedly.
He’d never win with his dad.
But Carissa had always been a winner with his mother.
One out of two had not been bad.
Aaron advanced until he was nose to nose with his father, the man pressed to the side of the elevator.
“Aaron,” Steven whispered.
“Do not ever call Carissa a bitch.”
“I raised a weak son,” his father sneered. “Mind filled with skirt.”
I can’t stand the sight of you.
The doors opened.
Aaron backed away from his dad and strode out.
*
Aaron Neiland didn’t go to his office.
He went to his house.
The house his fucking father shoved down his throat.
He knew Carissa hated it. It was big and imposing, took forever to clean, it wasn’t her. Not even a little bit.
It could have been her, if they’d worked up to it, they’d started smaller and he’d been able to give her bigger and do it gradually, but his parents planting them in it when he was just starting as a junior associate…
No.
He went to the kitchen, opened a cupboard, grabbed a glass, opened another cupboard, grabbed a bottle, but stopped himself before pouring.
The bottle held an expensive Scotch whisky.
His dad drank Scotch.
He stared at the bottle.
Fuck, why did he drink whisky? He hated it.
He poured it down the drain and made what he liked.
A gin and tonic.
Then he did what the asshole in a romantic movie would do.
He went to the box that Tory had filled and put in the closet of one of the guest rooms. He tugged it out. He grabbed the wedding album. He went to the bed and dropped it on it.
He slugged back some gin and tossed open the cover.
The first picture was of Carissa sitting on a green lawn, bouquet in her hand, massive dress spread all around, her eyes up and not looking at the camera, but shifted to the right.
She was laughing.
Carissa had asked their photographer to put a picture of the two of them together at the beginning of the album.
Carissa’s dad had insisted on paying for the wedding, including the photographer, but still, even though she wasn’t paying for it, his mother had vetoed Carissa’s wishes and chosen that photo.
As usual, his mother got what she wanted.
Aaron stared at the picture, his gut twisting.
He looked at her face in the photo and remembered that moment. Remembered it exactly.
It had been half an hour after they’d been declared married. He’d spent half that time in the back of their limo making out with his beautiful new wife, enjoying himself immensely, and also enjoying pissing off his parents, who wanted his and his wife’s asses in front of the photographer.
But as that photo was taken, he was standing to the photographer’s left and it had been all about Carissa. All about how sure he was about her right there in that beautiful gown. All about how sure he’d always been that they would have that, him in a tux, her in a wedding dress.
He’d been happy, happy for himself, happy for her, and because of that he’d been teasing her. He’d made her laugh and the photographer had snapped the picture.
I can’t stand the sight of you.